


Abeyance

by Wojelah



Series: Cause of Snow [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-26
Updated: 2009-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wojelah/pseuds/Wojelah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's trying pretty hard not to think about today and he knows it.  They're going to be dissecting everything in minute detail, and it's not going to get easier as they go.  He needs a breather before that starts.  He didn't used to, but he does now."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abeyance

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://smittywing.livejournal.com/profile)[**smittywing**](http://smittywing.livejournal.com/) said, "MINIONS! I want fic where Rossi and Prentiss go home and he kisses her on the head and tells her she did good, and then they have sex and talk about how they're going to get Foyet. The end." This is not exactly what she asked for, but she was very nice about it anyway. :). SPOILERS: Through 5.01, Nameless, Faceless.

\---

_I cannot walk through the suburbs in the solitude of the night without thinking that the night pleases us because it suppresses idle details, just as our memory does. _

_~Jorge Luis Borges_

\---

By the time Dave pulls into the parking lot, it's late. Again. They've been running full-steam-ahead since they left for Canada and he's not sure any of them have much of a reserve after today. Morgan's with Hotch. JJ's with Reid. He couldn't have talked them out of it if he'd tried - and he had. Tried. They'd just looked at him like he was speaking Greek and settled in. Rossi's always been one to pick his battles.

Dave shifts into park, turns off the headlights, and listens to the growl of the idling engine. He tilts his head back against the headrest, and gives himself permission to close his eyes. Just for a minute. Just long enough to convince his legs that they've got enough energy to haul his ass up a flight of stairs. Just long enough to give his brain a chance to reboot - a minute of space in the dark and quiet cab of his truck. It's only for a minute. Then he'll let the world kick back into gear.

He wakes up hard and all at once when someone raps gently on the window. His hand's on his gun, the clock on his dash says it's been eleven minutes, and Prentiss is peering in at him. Dave scrubs a hand over his face and feels _old_. Emily apparently takes his movement as an invitation, because she tugs on the door handle and frowns at him. He turns the truck off and the locks click open.

"Hi," she says quietly when she opens the door. "I heard the engine running."

"Someone has to compensate for the fact that you drive a Prius," he answers. It's not really funny, and he knows she didn't come out because she's concerned about his carbon footprint. Still, she manages a chuckle and he smiles back at her, and it's the breather they both need.

"C'mon." Emily wraps her hand around his forearm. Dave goes willingly, grabbing the key and popping his seatbelt. When he's got his feet on the ground, she slides her palm down till they're holding hands, and he tries not to squeeze too hard. He slams the door closed, the noise loud in the quiet.

They're at her place because it's closer, because they'll be in bright and early tomorrow, and because Dave has actively considered having a torrid affair with her seemingly inexhaustible hot water heater. There is nothing in the world he wants so much as a long, hot shower, but in the span of time it takes him to bolt the door, Prentiss has started banging around in the kitchen. He settles himself on one of the bar stools and submits to being fed.

"It's just soup," she says, sort-of apologetically. "From a can. Chicken noodle."

Comfort food. He's all for that. "Soup's fine," he answers. "Not hungry for much any way." His brain's starting to have to hunt for words.

Prentiss shoots him a look, but he's not giving her a hard time. "Yeah. But tomorrow's going to suck enough as it is. So. _Mangia_," she says, in an overblown accent, pointing a spoon at him until he huffs a laugh. She turns back to stir the pot.

Dave watches her move around the kitchen, smooth, comfortable, at home, for all that her movements telegraph fatigue. She pulls down mugs and spoons, grabs them both a glass of water, splits the soup between the mugs and then perches next to him at the other stool. The soup's salty and the noodles are a little pasty and it's pretty fantastic, actually. He's suddenly starving. He downs half of it before she's more than a few spoonfuls in. Since that means he's scalded the crap out of the roof of his mouth and his tongue, he shoves the mug away and just watches Emily.

He's trying pretty hard not to think about today and he knows it. They're going to be dissecting everything in minute detail, and it's not going to get easier as they go. He needs a breather before that starts. He didn't used to, but he does now. So he's trying to set it at a remove, but there's one thing, at least, that ought to be said.

"You did good," he says at length. Because his timing is apparently _impeccable_, the words make their way out when she's swallowing a sip of water.

Emily splutters and sets the glass aside. "What?" She looks confused.

"It was good work." Dave toys with his spoon. "You made good calls." Even if he'd wanted to throttle both her and Reid when he'd first found out about Hotch, it hadn't been because she'd made the wrong decision. "Across the board."

She flushes a little and bites her lip. "Rossi -" Emily pauses, and he waits her out. "I don't mean this the wrong way. I mean, thank you, because today _sucked_, but..." She looks up at him. "I can honestly say that worrying about that? Not at the top of my very, very long list tonight."

He smiles, a twist of the lips, because while that may be true, it doesn't change the fact that she's at least a little pleased.

"It's not like there was a lot of time to stop and think about it." She sips at her soup. "It's not like there were a lot of choices." Her eyes go dark and angry and her knuckles whiten around her mug - which just makes him realize he's doing the same thing. "And it's not like it made a difference."

He snorts. "Don't be an idiot."

Emily glares at him for a moment and then sighs. She props her elbows on the table and leans her face against her hands. "That's not what I mean." She rubs at her eyes. "We all did good today. Objectively. We really did. But Reid's still got a hole in his knee." Her voice is thick. "And Hotch...."

Dave doesn't push her to finish. He doesn't really want to hear how that sentence ends, especially since he really already knows. He stands and grabs the dishes. There's only that and the pot, so he fills the sink with hot water and sets to washing. Emily materializes with a dishtowel and dries.

"What kind of idiot says he's okay after nine stab wounds?" Emily demands as he pulls out the stopper and lets the water drain.

Dave barks a laugh, harsh and exasperated, just like Prentiss sounds. "Aaron Hotchner." He takes the towel from her and scrubs at his hands. "Hotch isn't fine. And he knows we know it. Which doesn't help." He goes to check the front door while she digests that statement, and he does not let himself think about his conversation with Hotch at the hospital, or the defeat on Aaron's face, or any one of a number of things about the whole situation.

When he comes back to the kitchen, she's holding herself very still. "You're not fine either," she says bluntly. "Neither am I."

"None of us are," he admits quietly, and meets her eyes steadily. "Not today." He doesn't know who moves first, only that he ends up with his arms around Emily. Her hands are clenched against his back and his cheek is resting against her hair. They're holding onto each other like there's no other fixed point in the universe.

Dave wonders, from time to time, just how the hell it is he got to here, with Emily. Tonight, he's just glad he's got her to lean on - and if she needs to lean back, he handle that. It hasn't escaped him that, minus the non-Platonic aspects, the same is true about the whole team. _His_ whole team. He doesn't feel lucky, not tonight, not after today, and the day before, and the day before that. He doesn't feel lucky - but he's not sure he's ever been more grateful.

He drops a kiss against Emily's hair, and the non-Platonic aspect for whom he is the most grateful pulls away from his shoulder just enough to look up. Her eyes are tired and red. "Dave," she says, at the same time he says, "Prentiss." She blinks at him. "You first," she says with a little smile.

Dave pulls her back against him, snugging her close, burying a hand in her hair. "Emily," he starts, but it's his turn to grope for words. "Can we - I don't - I _can't_." He even _sounds_ old, he thinks, disgusted. But it's true - he can't do this, talk about this, process any more than the bare facts, not tonight, not knowing it will all be back tomorrow. He's angry and worried, and yes, he's scared, and if he thinks about it any more tonight he's going to put his hand through a wall or go nuts. The guy he was twenty years ago wouldn't have had that problem. He'd have had no doubt they'd nail Foyet. Dave doesn't doubt it now; he just knows more about what it will cost than his younger self.

But the guy he was twenty years ago also wouldn't be standing in Emily Prentiss's kitchen, his arms full of the owner of that kitchen, savoring the way her fingers rub at the muscles knotted at the base of his neck. "Me either," Emily says, and he's pretty sure it's not just because she's humoring him.

They stand there for a little while longer, something like content, but then Dave's legs and back start to remind him that he's been running for seventy-two-plus hours on minimal sleep. He wants a shower. A really _hot_ shower. He follows Emily up, a hand at the small of her back. She catches it as he turns to head into her bathroom, folding his fingers around her hand and brushing the knuckles against her cheek. She tugs him closer, kisses him gently, and then shoves him towards the bathroom. "Go on," she says, shimmying out of her blouse. "Doris is waiting."

"Doris is not a sexy name," he complains half-heartedly, because he appreciates the effort.

"Since we're talking about a _hot water heater_," Emily drawls, the effect muffled by the t-shirt she's hauling over her head, "I think Doris is perfectly suitable. Go shower before you fall asleep standing up." Dave goes.

He actually does kind of zone out, standing under the near-scalding water. It's only the fact that vertical is becoming less and less appealing that gets his sorry ass out of the bathroom and into pajama bottoms. Emily's sprawled on her back, three-quarters asleep. He flips off the lights and settles in against her, his head against her shoulder and his arm across her waist.

The sheets are cool and soft against his stomach. Emily's warm and strong beneath and beside him. The room is dark and quiet. He's looking for a modicum of peace, enough to convince his brain to park itself for a few more hours. That's all he wants. But in the dark and the comfort and the quiet, he can feel the dull spark of anger in his belly, seeping into his system, knotting his hands into fists.

"I want him," Dave says at last. He's pretty sure Emily isn't asleep, though her breathing is deep and even. "I don't care how we get him." His voice is low and harsh even to his own ears.

She sighs and reaches for the hand that's resting on her hip, trailing her fingers over his fist. "We'll get him," she answers. She sounds implacable. She sounds furious. She sounds exactly like he does. It's all the reply she offers. It's all the comfort he needs. He uncurls his fingers and links them with hers, and then he sleeps.

He wakes up at some obscene hour because he's freezing. He's freezing because Emily's stolen all the damn blankets. Prentiss has rolled away toward the edge of the bed, curled so tightly into the comforter that her silhouette in the dark looks like a cross between the Mummy and the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. He gropes for something that might be an edge and yanks. "Emily."

The blankets heave and subside.

"Prentiss," he growls, "it's freezing." The blankets are apparently underwhelmed by his plight, because they just shudder and, if anything, wrap tighter.

Dave propels himself up on to his arm and pulls at what might be a shoulder, tugging Emily toward him. "Prentiss," he hisses, "wake the hell up and share the damn blankets."

"Rossi?" The lump of bedding convulses as Prentiss works an arm free. She claws the blankets away from her face, shoving her hair out of the way. "Dave?" She looks dazed, like she'd been sleeping hard, and her voice is gravelly.

"Emily," he says, trying to be patient when what he really, really wants is to be _asleep_, "you are a blanket hog."

"Dave," she whispers, her eyes going wide and dark. He's got a second to wonder if she's all the way awake; then there's a lot of flailing going on, at the end of which he is 1) under more of the blankets and 2) wrapped around Emily, who is shivering despite the fact that her skin's about a zillion degrees, thanks to being wrapped up like a burrito.

Her face is tucked into the crook of his neck and her legs are tangled with his. Her hands are clutching at his shoulders. Her muscles are so tight they feel like they're about to snap. "I'm sorry," she whispers, and it turns into a litany, her lips moving against his shoulder.

Dave doesn't hush her, doesn't ask what she's sorry for, doesn't try and tell her it isn't her fault. Her inner monologue's not so different from his own tonight. He just lets her run herself out and then shifts them both to their sides, so he can lift her chin and make her look at him when he says her name. Her face is pale in the dark, and the gloom blurs the grief on her face, but it's enough that he can't keep his voice from cracking when he says her name again.

He'd give anything, he thinks, to take it away from her, but he's only human and he can't work miracles - hell, he can't even convince himself. When he leans in to kiss her, it's his own apology, and his chest aches with everything he can't say. In the morning, he thinks, they'll find a way to tackle this. In the morning, he'll remember how to be certain. He'll remember who it is deserves the guilt and the blame, and he'll move mountains to bring it down on that bastard's head. But it's not morning yet - it's not even dawn.

Emily cups a hand around his cheek and opens her mouth against his. They take their time, a quiet slide of tongue and lip, punctuated only by the need to breathe. He lays a hand against her face, tastes the salt on her cheek. She covers his hand with hers, turning her head to kiss his palm and then slides it down to cover her breast. He presses gently as she lets go; she sighs and pushes into it. "Please," she asks, arching her back. "Rossi - Dave - please."

Her hand's on his side, smoothing patterns along his skin that make his muscles tense. He brushes his thumb over her nipple gently and she clutches at him, tipping her head and distracting him with the line of her throat. He dips his head to taste it, to taste her, and has to stop himself from leaving a mark.

Her hands are everywhere, warm and demanding, sparking every nerve. He shifts her to her back, mouthing at her breast just as she reaches out and takes his cock in her hand. He catches her nipple just a little harder than he'd planner, just enough that she cries out and twists against him, that her grip tightens enough to make him groan and snap his hips forward.

He can feel it building, that tension at the base of his spine, in his legs and arms and abs. He slides a finger down and finds Emily wet and ready, but he doesn't want to let this go, not yet, not when it's all that they can do to keep the world at bay. She's working him slow and steady and he can't stop himself from moving with her, straddling her leg, following her hand.

Dave slides two fingers up and in, wanting to take her there with them, telling her how good it is, how good she is, how much he needs her. He matches her pace, setting up a slow in-and-out, his thumb a gentle pressure on her clit, listening to the little cries she makes each time, the way they sound layered over the words he can't keep from spilling out.

She bows up and off the bed when he finally takes his hand away, letting go in order to grab at his shoulders as he turns to the nightstand. "No," she demands, her eyes wide in the dark. "God, no, don't stop."

"Almost," he says, not sure what he's trying to say - not sure of anything except that he needs to get the damn condom on _right now_. "Just - soon."

"_Now_," Emily says desperately as he turns back to her, hitching her leg up and over his hip.

"Now is good," he agrees, and then, finally, thank God, he's sinking down into her, dropping his head against the side of her neck. Emily cries out even as he groans with sheer relief, that she's there, surrounding him, wrapped around him, tight and hot and clinging. He moves just enough and they both moan; Emily arches up against him, her hands in his hair, holding him to her.

The idea of distance is unthinkable - he pulls back and she follows him almost instantly, starting into a slow, breathless, aching climb. He doesn't know how long it lasts before she hits her breaking point; he just knows that suddenly she's there, so close, fighting for breath, for just a little bit _more_, and all of his control is just about shot to hell.

Dave props himself up on his arms, just enough to give him a little more leverage, just enough to get her attention and link his fingers with his. "Hang on," he mutters, and then he lets himself go, lets himself move hard and sure against her. He never knows who comes first, only that the orgasm's rolling through both of them hard enough that they both shout.

For a very long time, Dave has no interest in moving at all. They're both breathing hard; he can feel a few small stings where her nails dug in. He starts to move, because he's pretty much got to be crushing her to death, but she wraps herself around him. "Not yet," she says, her voice hoarse. "Please."

"Okay," he agrees, and subsides. "Okay." It's not until her breathing starts to even out towards sleep that he shifts away, and even then, he just rearranges things enough to deal with the condom before he relaxes back into her arms. He's not far behind her - his eyelids feel like lead and they don't have that much more time before the alarm's going to ring. The sky's just barely starting to lighten. _Not yet_, Dave tells himself, feeling the weight of the last three days starting to settle back onto his shoulders. _Not yet_, he thinks, gathering Emily to him. _Soon enough, but not yet._

\---

_In the innermost recess of your heart there is a reservoir of peace where you must take refuge._

_~ Sri Sathya Sai Baba_

\---  



End file.
